


The Memento Mori

by orphan_account



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Steampunk, Alternate Universe - The Children of Green Knowe, Angst, Fire, Ghosts, Multi, This could be scary for some people, ghost story, gratuitous symbolism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-15
Updated: 2016-03-15
Packaged: 2018-05-26 17:21:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6248764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Yamaguchi Tadashi's winter at his great-great-aunt's ancient manor house is shaping up to by more interesting than he expected after he discovers that the place is haunted by the ghosts of one Tsukishima Kei and Yachi Hitoka. However, as he digs deeper and deeper into the mysterious circumstances of their deaths, he discovers a more sinister side to the house and to its history. </p><p>Deep magic, a fire and a flood, a storyteller. </p><p>And the sneaking suspicion that maybe Tsukki and Yachi are not the only things haunting the old house after all...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Memento Mori

**Author's Note:**

> EDIT: I changed the title. It was really bothering me.
> 
> It has been a pleasure to pinch hit this gift of Nai at turntechtimelords on tumblr. I saw your prompt of steampunk and I was like hell yeah, and then I saw you liked drama an shit and I was like HELL YEAH.  
> So I sat down to write a fun little Steampunk AU and instead created a m o n s t e r.  
> I hope you, and everyone else, has as much fun reading this as I did writing it.
> 
> This story is set in England around the year 1880, and the height of what academics are calling The Age of Steam.  
> I would like to take a moment to acknowledge that I have taken the personal narratives of the HQ!! characters largely out of their cultural context for the purpose of fiction.
> 
> Thanks to [Marco](http://emperor-seijurou.tumblr.com/) and [Linda](http://mercuryandglass.tumblr.com/) for editing!

Yamaguchi Tadashi sat in the corner of the train carriage, trying to sit neatly and take up as little space as possible while still twisting to stare out of the window behind him. Outside, it was raining, and water streamed in long runnels and droplets down the glass, obscuring the view, which wasn’t particularly interesting anyway. The slate grey sky faded into the slate grey of the barren fields, water blurring the already hazy horizon out of existence until Tadashi felt like the train was a submarine, the only dry spot in a whole world of water. He’d never seen a submarine before, only pictures in the newspapers that were delivered weekly to the brick boarding school away from which he rode. The submarine had been called The Resurgam, he remembered, and the headline below its picture proclaimed it ‘A New Victory for the Steam Age’ and ‘The Pride of the British Fleet.’ Tadashi had never seen the fleet either, but he didn’t imagine it was very impressive if a small submarine shaped like a very thin diamond was its pride.

The train huffed past a town, the clouds above it darker than usual, filled with coal smoke. It slowed to a stop outside a station, the yellow lamps inside the building glowing eerily through the rain like eyes. Tadashi quickly looked away and focused on his hands as other passengers moved around him, shaking off umbrellas and hauling big trunks off of the overhead racks.

One of the new passengers was a young lady with raven black hair and delicate spectacles balanced on her straight nose. Tadashi could tell she was a lady because by her suitcase, which trundled along behind her on little steam-powered wheels. Once she was seated, it stowed itself neatly under the bench beside her. Tadashi couldn’t help but wonder why she wasn’t in first class; that gadget wasn’t a cheap one, and he’d only seen them before in big cities. He noticed her watching him and quickly turned his gaze back to the window, tugging on the stiff cotton collar of his shirt.

The further they went, the rainier it became, until even the train tracks were covered with water for long intervals. During these periods, the train moved much more quietly than usual. Instead of the loud rattling of the wheels, only a smooth swish could be heard as the engine ploughed through the grey water. At these points, a snapping could be heard coming from the lady’s suitcase as it refilled its tiny boiler so it was prepared to move out at a moment’s notice.

They pulled into the next station and the suitcase made as if to leave, trundling forwards towards the door. The lady nudged it back under the seat with her foot. Ah, so it was probably second hand or in bad repair. It’s gears clicked and squeaked for a moment, but then it settled. More people got off.

After they started moving again, the lady fished a small novel out of her purse. Tadashi could just barely see the title, embossed in gold on the dark green fabric cover: ‘A Story Short, and Other Continental Folk Tales.’

The grey sky was beginning to darken, and it was getting harder and harder to see anything past the water dripping down the window. The conductor entered and went along the rows of seats, checking tickets along the way. Takashi held his out. It had already been punched when the conductor made his first round an hour ago. He barely glanced at it and went to punch everyone else’s, lighting the gas lamps that hung from the roof of the train carriage with a blue and white matchbox before moving on to the next carriage.

About half an hour later, Tadashi was jerked awake as the train stopped abruptly in front of another station. His face was very cold from leaning against the window, and he was groggy from the impromptu nap, but as soon as he saw the station sign, illuminated in the yellow light from the train windows, he pushed himself into hurried movement, hauling his single trunk down from overhead and retrieving his umbrella from beneath his seat. The lady watched him, impassive, as he hastily dragged his belongings to the door, her novel forgotten in her lap.

He hurried away from her gaze, jumping down onto the platform, it’s thin coating of rainwater soaking his shoes immediately. He’d forgotten to open his umbrella before leaving the train and the downpour quickly drenched him. His wet hands slipped on the metal handle, and it took a few moments of fiddling to get it open and over his head. Once he did, he looked around cautiously.

Behind him, the train swished away, quickly becoming lost in fog and water, leaving the platform illuminated only by a single flickering lamppost. Below it was the platform’s sign, with the words ‘Senny Bridge’ painted in peeling black paint on the white background. The rest of the platform was abandoned.

Tadashi shivered quite suddenly. He was sure this was the right place, but he was alone in a sea of blackness, only the sound of hissing rain to keep him company. He dragged his trunk to the small circle of light and stood miserably beside it, feeling the water soak through his coat. What if no one came? What if he was stuck on the bare platform all night? If the water rose too high? He might drown or be swept away by the flood.

His thoughts were interrupted by the chugging sound of an engine coming from behind him, the opposite direction as the tracks. A pair of headlights emerged from the darkness, and, as they approached, the car attached to them became clearer and clearer. It was quite small and quite old, its large chimney belching out a billowy cloud of black smoke that was soon lost in the rain and darkness. The driver steered it almost all the way onto the edge of the tiny platform before stopping, and, leaving the car running, he opened the door, poking an umbrella out and opening it.

Because of the rain and the darkness, Tadashi didn’t get a good look at the stranger until he was nearly on top of him. His short black hair was hidden under a flat cap, and his face was tanned, even in the middle of winter. He had a square jaw and very deep brown eyes, but other than that, a friendly expression.

“Are you Yamaguchi Tadashi?” he asked as he approached, large wading boots splashing through the rainwater and greatcoat swishing.

“Y-yes! That’s me,” Tadashi responded, his teeth beginning to chatter with the cold.

“Well come along then,” the man said warmly, and grabbed Tadashi’s trunk, “we don’t want you to freeze out here.”

Tadashi realized with surprise that the driver, despite his solid form, was just a bit shorter than he was. “W-wait, I can get it,” he said, hurrying after the man.

“It’s no problem.” By this time the driver had reached the car and was opening the door to the boot, tossing Tadashi’s luggage in it with impressive ease. He closed the door, thumping it a few times to make sure it wouldn’t open, then indicated the cab. “Hop in.”

Tadashi hurried to obey, accidentally soaking himself again as he tried to close his umbrella.

The driver laughed at that, a hearty guffaw that felt like the warmth of a fireplace in the middle of the rain. He hauled Tadashi into his seat and reached over him to close the door. “I’m Sawamura by the way, but you should call me Daichi. I’m the grounds keeper at Karasuno.”

“Karasuno?” Tadashi asked.

“Yeah, you’re going to be staying there this winter,” Daichi said, reversing the car, which puffed asthmatically for a moment before it started moving. “Didn’t they tell you?”

“I was just told I was to stay with my great-great-aunt,” Tadashi confessed. “They didn’t mention anything but the station name.”

Daichi looked vaguely annoyed by this, and said, “that’s no good. They should’ve told you. The estate, and the house on it, is called Karasuno, and it’s been in your family for generations.”

Tadashi wanted to ask how he knew all this, but he was still somewhat nervous around the man, and leaning back against the warm seat of the car made him drowsy, so he kept silent.

Only one of the car’s window wipers worked, the other seemingly stuck, and Daichi peered out through the thin clear path it made at the road. There wasn’t really much to see though. The headlights only illuminated a few feet of road and that was mostly covered in moving water.

They reached a humpback bridge, and Daichi slowed the car to a crawl as they entered a big puddle at the base of it. The water came up almost to the hubcaps of the tall wheels. Tadashi was worried for a moment that they’d be swept away by the current of dirty brown water that he could just barely see rushing under the bridge, but Daichi didn’t seem concerned as he drove them up and over the surprisingly tall bridge and into the puddle on the other side.

“Is it far?” Tadashi asked, wondering if the car had enough coal for the trip, or if they’d have to get out and refill the boiler in the rain.

“Not really,” Daichi said, eyes still focused on the wet road. “We just had to take the long way around because of the flood. Karasuno sits almost right in the middle of it, so now there’s only one way left that’s safe.”

Tadashi couldn’t think of a reply, and fell silent again. After another ten minutes of driving, the rain pounding on the metal roof like a tuneless chorus of bells, they pulled into a long driveway flanked on either side by bare trees. Their trunks emerged one by one from the gloom like pale pillars, and disappeared just as quietly. Tadashi subconsciously huddled closer to Daichi, who seemed untroubled. Ahead of them, squares of yellow light began to appear out of the night, and as they approached, they arranged themselves into the shape of a house, very tall and thin, almost like a tower.

Daichi pulled right up to the doorstep, opened his door, and hopped out. Tadashi opened his door more hesitantly, only to find that the handle was stuck.

“You’ve got to really thump it,” Daichi called from behind the car, evidently having heard the sounds of Tadashi’s scrabbling.

Tadashi hit the door tentatively, not wanting to break the old car.

“Seriously,” Daichi said, appearing on the other side of the door with his trunk, “don’t worry about hurting it; just go for it.”

Tadashi hammered on the metal inside a couple of times, and it popped open with a distressing squeal.

Daichi laughed again. “That’s the spirit.” He turned towards the house, fiddling in his greatcoat pockets and pulling out an iron ring of keys and shuffling through them. “That car’s old. Asahi and I keep trying to fix her, but we can never find the real problem,” he said conversationally, unlocking the front door. It was quite low, but very broad, easily wide enough to let two people enter side by side, and made out of some sort of dark wood.

Tadashi found that Daichi had pulled close enough to the step that he could hop off straight on to it, instead of having to wade through the water that covered what was probably the yard, although he couldn’t tell in the darkness.

Once inside, Daichi pulled the door closed and Tadashi found himself in a short hallway. The walls were painted the dark red shade of an apple and covered in oil paintings. Some were very old, their surfaces cracked and dry, but others more recent and their varnish shinier. All were still life, a setting of a bowl of fruit, or a jug, or a jar of flowers against a dark background. Daichi took off his coat and hung it on one of the many pegs that lined the first couple meters of the entrance hall. The pegs were made from old bronze pistons, shiny and bent with use, and welded to a sheet of metal that had been nailed into the red wall. Tadashi hastily stripped off his soaked coat and hung it next to Daichi’s, where it dripped onto the wooden floor. His vest and the shirt beneath it were also soaked.

“Take your shoes off as well,” Daichi said, looking him over, “and follow me; we’ll get you warmed up in no time.”

Tadashi started to ask who ‘we’ was, but Daichi had already disappeared through a door on his right. He tried to untie his shoes, but the laces were swollen with water and his hands stiff with the cold. He tripped, catching himself with one hand just before he fell into the wall. As he straightened back up, he came face to face with a tiny watercolour portrait, no taller than his hand, hidden amongst the many other paintings. It was a man, no, a boy, probably no more than fifteen or sixteen, in a red jacket and white pants, a military uniform. He was standing stiffly and formally, one hand on the pommel of a rapier, the other at his brow in a formal salute. A three-cornered black hat was perched precariously on his head, and a few blond curls escaped from it. A tiny pair of spectacles could be made out hanging from one of his pockets, and a few medals were painted across his chest.Unlike the rest of the image, which was almost unnaturally detailed, these were mere splotches of paint.

“Yamaguchi?” Daichi called from the other room, startling Tadashi out of his reverie. He stumbled to take his shoes off and pattered into the next room, his sodden socks sounding on floor with a series of wet smacks.

The new room was olive green, and once again the walls were covered, this time with tapestries and ornamental rugs. A thick carpet covered the floor, its vaguely Persian motif barely visible in the flickering firelight that illuminated the room, giving it a warm orange glow. Daichi was standing in one corner near another man, and, when Tadashi entered, the stranger looked at him with surprise. He was maybe a couple centimetres shorter than Daichi and had greyish-silver hair that the firelight had dyed orange and yellow. He wore a faded cream shirt and a waistcoat that looked to be in reasonably good repair but whose style had gone out two seasons ago.

“This will never do,” he said, his voice much lighter than Daichi’s. He hurried over to Tadashi and looked him up and down. “You’re soaked, completely soaked. Daichi, how dare you let him get so wet?” He shot a hard look towards Daichi, who wilted under it.

“He was like that when I arrived,” the groundskeeper said helplessly.

“Well you should have got there sooner,” the other man reprimanded. He had gone over to a chest, opened it, and hauled out an enormous blanket of a rich blue hue. The fabric spilled over his arms and trailed behind him as he hauled it over to Tadashi and wrapped the boy in it. “You go sit by the fire,” he ordered, “and I’ll get you something to eat. You must be starving.” Tadashi suddenly realized he was.

“There’s a flood out there,” Daichi protested. “I didn’t expect it to be so bad.”

The other man sniffed and brushed past him, opening a door that Tadashi hadn’t noticed at first, it being hidden in the room’s many shadows.

Daichi sighed. “That is Sugawara Koushi,” he told Tadashi.

“But call me Suga,” Sugawara said, head appearing in the doorway for a moment before vanishing again.

“He’s the cook here, and he takes care of the house while I take care of the garden,” Daichi explained, sitting down in one armchair and indicating that Tadashi should take another.

After a few moments of silence, Tadashi inquired, “Is my great-great-aunt here?”

“Ah, no.” Daichi replied, stretching out comfortably. “She already went to bed. You should know,” he said, fixing Tadashi with a look, “ she’s very old, and also quite frail, so don’t expect to spend all that much time with her.”

Tadashi nodded. He was used to amusing himself through lonely holidays anyway.

Daichi continued, “Suga and Asahi and I have our work, and you could tag along with us a bit if you’d like.”

“I don’t want to inconvenience any of you,” Tadashi mumbled.

Daichi chuckled at that. “You won’t be. This place is usually so quiet that you might have trouble keeping the others off you.”

Tadashi thought about that for a few moments, and then asked, “Who are the others? I-I mean, who is Asahi?’

“Oh yeah. I’m sorry,” Daichi said, “I’ve been going on and on about him without explaining who he is.” He rubbed the back of his head. “Asahi is a mechanic. He lives in the village near here, Senny Bridge, but he does a lot of repairs here at Karasuno as well. The place is almost falling apart since only the old lady still lives here.”

Tadashi nodded again, trying to look polite and not overly interested.

“Asahi’s a huge coward though,” Daichi mused. “He’ll probably seem scared stiff of you when you first meet him, but don’t worry. He’s got a big heart.”

Tadashi was about to asked how someone could be scared of a skinny fifteen-year-old when Suga returned with a large tray laden with tea and biscuits and sandwiches cut into little triangles. “It’s such a pity your train was so late,” he said as he laid the tray on a big chest turned coffee table, “if you’d been earlier we could have had a proper dinner.”

The sandwiches turned out to be amazing, probably the best that Tadashi had ever tasted, and the biscuits even better. He ate so many of them that he felt impolite and greedy for a moment, until Suga reassured him that the greatest compliment one could pay a cook was to eat more than their fair share. A while after they’d finished eating, Tadashi had sat back, comfortably warm in his blanket, content to listen to Daichi and Suga chat about the flood and the lives of the villagers from Senny Bridge, none of whom Tadashi had ever heard of, and then of the exciting new airships that were starting to appear over the estate. Then the large grandfather clock that stood next to the door of the drawing room, as Suga called it, started to sound. It’s hands pointed to eleven o’clock exactly. It was an ancient thing, still powered by clockwork rather than steam, and encased in a big oak frame. 

At its sound Daichi pulled a pocket watch out of his waistcoat and squinted at it. “The clock’s slow,” he remarked.

“Again?” Suga said, sounding equal parts despairing and frustrated. “We’ve been trying to get the old thing to run on time for months now,” he explained to Tadashi, “but within a day it’s already slow again.”

“Why don’t you try switching to a newer one?” Tadashi asked, and immediately regretted it as both Suga and Daichi turned to give him searching looks.

“We can’t,” Daichi said after an uncomfortable pause. “It belongs with the house.” He didn’t elaborate.

“Well,” Suga said, standing up stiffly and clapping his hands, “isn’t it about time you got to bed? You must be tired.”

Daichi grunted in agreement. “I’ll get your trunk.”

“Come on,” Suga said, helping the confused Tadashi up. “Let’s get you to your room. It’s right at the top of the house.” He led Tadashi back into the entrance hall and all the way along it to the back of the house, where there was a surprisingly narrow staircase. It twisted and turned its way up, hugging the back wall for three floors, then opened into a large gallery that again ran the length of the house, taking up half of a floor. “This is the music room,” Suga explained, leading Tadashi along it. The name seemed strange, because although the room was filled with all manner of strange objects and artefacts, here a wicker bird cage, there an miniature automaton, its torso open and cogs and gears spilling out on to the table on which it sat, but there was no sign of anything related to music.

“I’ll give you the full tour tomorrow,” Suga said apologetically, “when it’s light enough to get a good look at everything.”

Tadashi nodded mutely. Since the climb he had started to feel very tired indeed, despite his nap aboard the train.

The next staircase Suga led him to was so steep it was almost a ladder, but it only went up one floor, ending in a trap door cut into the music room’s ceiling. “We put you in the attic,” Suga said. “It’s a bit more private than anywhere else, and probably the biggest room we’ve got.”

Tadashi poked his head through the trapdoor. The attic ran the entire length and width of the house, and its ceiling was just the bare beams of the roof. They sloped down to the floor on either side, making the room triangular, like a tent. It had two windows, one on either of the flat sidewalls, but both were covered in thick curtains. Suga clambered up behind him and reached up to light the single big oil lamp in the middle of the room with a match.

“The gas doesn’t come all the way up here, so you’ll have to make do with oil. Is that alright?” he asked Tadashi. “If you need any help using it, just ask me okay?”

Tadashi nodded in response and continued to survey the room. A single bed covered in a colourful patchwork quilt was placed against one sidewall. At the opposite end of the room stood a big rocking horse, its legs outstretched and fixed to crescent rockers and its neck straining forwards. It was wooden, and its once bright paint was faded with time. Placed near it was a doll’s house, again bigger than any Tadashi had ever seen, its immaculately painted face closed and latched so he couldn’t see inside it. A chest of drawers stood near one of the sloping walls and on top of it was a small collection of knickknacks, a pair of old spectacles, two wind-up mice, three ornamental cats (one of onyx, one of mottled ivory, and the last and smallest of amber), and a faded ribbon which might once have been orange. Other than that there was nothing but the miles of shiny wooden floor.

“It’s a bit barren,” Suga said apologetically, “but you don’t have to spend all your time up here if you don’t want.”

There was a loud scuffing sound as Daichi tried to manoeuvre the large trunk through the trapdoor, and Suga and Tadashi ran to help him. They got the luggage through the hole without too much trouble, and pushed it to the end of the bed.

Then the two men milled around awkwardly for a moment until Suga said, “I think that’s everything. The bathroom is downstairs off the music room. It’s the door with the eye sculpture on it.Just make sure you’re careful when you go down the ladder.”

Tadashi nodded, thinking about the comfortable looking bed.

“Also, if you need me, pull this.” Suga showed him a silk bell pull, woven with stripes of coppery orange and shiny black. “It will ring a bell in the kitchen, and I’ll be sure to hear it, so don’t hesitate.” He gave Tadashi one last bright smile before ushering Daichi down the ladder to the music room.

“Have a good night,” Daichi called gruffly from below, quickly echoed by Suga.

“Good night,” Tadashi replied, trying not to raise his voice too much. He carefully closed the trapdoor and stood alone in the quiet room for a moment. The silence seemed almost thick. Shivering, he quickly unpacked his pyjamas, changed, and rolled into the bed. It was surprising soft and very warm, and he fell asleep almost instantly.

When he woke, it was still dark, so dark he could barely make out the wall in front of him, and the room was very quiet; not even the sound of the rain could be heard, pattering against the roof. Had it stopped raining? Surely if it had he’d be able to see a little by moonlight, but there was nothing. What had woken him? He lay still, straining his ears to hear even the tiniest movement of the house, but there was nothing. His bed was still warm and soft; he should just go back to sleep…

“But who is he?” Tadashi froze, a shiver passing up his spine despite the warmth of his quilt. The voice was quiet, but unnaturally so, as if it was both very close and very far away. It was high pitched, the voice of a girl, but not really a child. A young woman? A teenager? It was coming from behind him, but he couldn’t make himself roll over.

“Huh? Who cares?” another voice responded. This one was definitely a man, but it was light like Suga’s, rather than deep, and sounded distinctly disinterested.

“Don’t you care?” this girl said.

“No,” the boy responded curtly.

Despite the fact that there were obviously at least two people in his room, there was no sound other than the sound of their voices. No tap of footsteps, no swish of fabric, no creak of floorboards. It was as if they were no more corporeal than their floating words.

Tadashi mustered all his strength, closed his eyes, and rolled over as quickly as possible. The instant he opened them, the sound of rain pattering hard on the roof started up again, and the room was suddenly bathed in a dark grey glow that peeked around the edges of the curtains. The floor was empty.

He shivered again. Maybe that had just been a dream; it had certainly felt like one. Should he call Suga? The cook had told him to call whenever. But it was late, far too late to wake him up for what was almost certainly a dream, Tadashi thought. No need to act like a little baby on his first night here. He took another careful look around the room. As far as he could tell, nothing in the room was any different than if had been when he’d went to sleep. It was nothing, just a dream. Tadashi rolled back to face the wall, wrapped his blanket as tightly around him as he could, and closed his eyes.

The next time he awoke, it was morning and dove grey light was filtering in around the curtains making the room look washed out and dusty. Rain was still hammering down on the rooftop, and he could hear it splattering on to the window above him as well. Tadashi sat up and looked around him. The room was unchanged, grey light filtering into soft grey shadows, old and quiet. He opened the curtains and peered out. Clouds and rain obscured the view, but in good weather it must have been quite impressive. Now all he could see was the same horizonless grey plain as he’d seen on the train the previous day. For a moment, the memory of last night’s probably-a-dream again entered his head, but he banished it as quickly as possible. No use worrying or acting foolish over something that doesn’t exist, he told himself.

He hopped out of bed, the wooden floor cold on his bare feet, and rooted through his trunk for clothes. He found his red tin alarm clock and a couple of textbooks instead and set them by the head of the bed. The clock face showed a quarter past nine.

Tadashi dressed quickly and hurried down the ladder. The music room was significantly warmer than his own, but still quite chilly, and he was suddenly glad he’d packed lots of sweaters. In the grey morning light, this room also looked washed out and filled with mottled shadows.

He found the bathroom without too much difficulty and was immediately struck by how old-fashioned it was. It did have hot and cold running water, but unlike the toilets at school, which were all pressurized and connected to the main boiler and would flush with a demonic hissing sound, this one used only gravity. Its porcelain tank was painted with tasteless pink flowers, which clashed spectacularly with the pastel yellow wallpaper.

Tadashi finished his business as quickly as possible, not forgetting to wash his face, and clattered down the stairs, only remembering to keep quiet about halfway down. He found no one in the drawing room either, and tentatively knocked on the green baize door through which Suga had brought his sandwich tray last night.

“Come on in.” It was Suga’s voice.

Tadashi opened the door and found himself in a comfortable, and far more modern kitchen that occupied the rear quarter of the ground floor of the house. Suga was sitting at a little round table near a window and sipping at a cup of tea. Around him, steam hissed and cogs wheezed, filling the room with a close humidity that immediately had Tadashi sweating but that didn’t seem to bother Suga at all. 

“Good morning, Yamaguchi,” he said kindly, and indicated for the boy to join him at the table. He poured Tadashi a cup of tea and said, “I haven’t quite finished breakfast yet, but once I do, we’ll have it in the dining room with the old lady.”

“The old lady?” Tadashi asked.

“Your great-great-aunt, although she’ll probably have you call her auntie,” Suga replied, sipping his tea. “We call her the old lady because she’s a lady. This place is a manor you know, and, well” he paused awkwardly and cast a glance out of the window at the flooded grey fields, “she’s not the young lady.”

Tadashi would have very much liked to know who the young lady was, but it was obviously not something that Suga wanted to talk about, so he kept quiet. Tadashi had almost finished his tea by the time Suga had loaded bowls, plates, tea cups, a tall jug of milk, a bowl of fruits (a recent luxury thanks to airships recently becoming fast enough to import fresh fruit and vegetables from North Africa, Spain, and Italy before they went off), a pot of tea and one of porridge on to a big tray.

“Hold the door for me Yamaguchi,” he requested, and hauled the tray, with surprising grace, off of its bench.

As he did, Daichi entered, dripping, from the back door. “Breakfast already?” he mumbled at Suga.

“You’re the late one here,” Suga replied, nodding at the steam clock above the door. “Get yourself cleaned up and then come to the dining room.”

Their exchange was so easy that Tadashi felt himself wondering if they were really just coworkers, but he wasn’t given much time to ponder this as he was swept along into the dining room.

The dining room was directly across the entrance hall from the drawing room, and had dark blue velvety wall paper, covered with a collection of mirrors of all shapes and sizes in multi-coloured frames, except for the far wall, which was almost entirely taken up by three enormous windows that looked out onto a rainy porch and the flooded garden. As Tadashi entered, he was confronted by hundreds of shards of his own reflection. A big oak table filled most of the room and around it were set twelve chairs, only three of which matched. Sitting in the largest, at the head of the rectangular table, was what looked to be like a voluminous pile of black brocade, topped by some wispy white hair. This quickly resolved itself into a very tiny very wrinkled old woman in a big black dress, dwarfed both by her garment and by the chair she sat in. She appeared to be dozing, her chin resting on her chest and her breathing light. 

“Mrs Yamasato?” Suga asked, gently setting the tray down on their end of the table. At the noise, the old woman jerked awake. 

“Suga? Suga dear is that you?” she asked in voice thin and tremulous with age. 

“Yes ma’am,” Suga replied politely, “I’ve brought your breakfast and Mister Yamaguchi.”

Tadashi felt suddenly awkward at the use of the article and fidgeted. Suga shot him an apologetic look, which confused Tadashi. What did Suga have to be sorry about?

“Mister Yamaguchi?” the old woman asked, breath fading out her lips like a sigh. “Who is Mister Yamaguchi? I don’t remember that name.”

Ah. That was it.

“He’s your nephew,” Suga reminded her patiently.

“My nephew?” she asked again, and then seemed to remember something, “ah yes, Tadashi. The grandson of my good-for-nothing cousin.”

Tadashi shot a confused glance at Suga, who was obviously embarrassed. 

“Come a little closer Tadashi. Let me see you clearly,” the old woman said, reaching out a trembling hand.

Suga nodded a reassurance at him and started unloading the large tray. Tadashi crept closer, trying to make his footsteps as quiet as possible, although he didn’t really know why. Up close, the old woman’s face was more a collection of wrinkles than anything else, her eyes half closed and frosty. She must be almost blind, Tadashi realized. 

“Shake my hand,” she commanded, and Tadashi obeyed, gently taking her trembling fingers and lifting them up and down once or twice. Her skin was dry against his and surprisingly rough. “You are Tadashi?” she asked.

“Y-yes ma’am,” he responded, not really knowing what to say.

The old lady smiled, her grin almost toothless but friendly and surprisingly infectious. Tadashi felt himself relaxing and smiling back. 

“You must call me auntie,” she said slowly, and then turned to Suga, the action no more than a minute twitch of her head. “Is that breakfast Suga dear? What have you made for us today?”

“Porridge with fruit,” Suga replied, “and also brown sugar and milk. There’s tea if you want it as well.”

Auntie smiled again. “That sounds delicious. Tadashi, sit down next to me. Is Daichi here?” She peered around the room, squinting but obviously not seeing much.

“Here ma’am.” At that moment Daichi appeared in the doorway, his face scrubbed pink and looking significantly cleaner than it had the previous night. “Has Suga introduced Yamaguchi?” he asked.

“He has,” Auntie responded happily. “Where is that young lad Asahi? Is he still in the village?”

“Yes Mrs Yamasato,” Daichi said. Tadashi noticed he also spoke more formally around her. “The floodwaters are making this place hard to get to, and they need him over there more than we need him here.” 

Tadashi caught the flash or worry that passed across Suga’s face, a moment of pursed lips and wrinkled brow, but it was gone so quickly he began to doubt he’d seen it at all. 

“Don’t be so worried,” Auntie replied, smiling again and wheezing out a laugh. “I’m sure your young man is just fine in the village. He’ll be back here safe and sound before you know it.”

Daichi smiled wanly at her, and Suga had the same expression on his face as well, but they both seemed somewhat relieved. Just who was this Asahi anyway?

During dinner, Auntie quizzed Tadashi relentlessly about his school life, his family, his hobbies, everything. She stopped several times to remonstrate against his grandfather, and although Tadashi could never really figure out exactly why, it seemed to mostly revolve around some sort of family conflict that had vanished long before Tadashi’s own birth. These fits of anger made both Daichi and Suga look uncomfortable and awkward, but neither man did anything to stop her.

After they all finished eating, the old lady the slowest of all, Suga apologetically told him he would have to amuse himself that morning. Daichi stumped out the back door again, and Suga vanished into a cloud of steam in the kitchen. Tadashi was left alone once again.

“You should explore the house,” Suga had suggested, before he’d gone back to his job. “You’ll be staying here for a while so you might as well learn your way around.”

Tadashi had taken the suggestion. He’d seen most of the first floor the night before and the only remaining room, the one across from the kitchen, was locked. A polished bronze plaque on it read ‘cook,’ so he assumed it was Suga’s room.

He wandered listlessly through the entrance hall and then suddenly remembered the watercolour portrait. What an odd painting. It had been detailed, far too finely detailed for just a watercolour. He closed his eyes and tried to picture it, but the mental image was blurry. He couldn’t get all of it clear at one time; as soon as he remembered one thing he forgot another. He started combing through the paintings along the side of the wall, but with no luck. Then he tried recreating his fall, pretending to trip himself in the doorway and looking carefully from picture to picture, again with little success.

After a while, Tadashi gave up and climbed to the second story. The door off of the stairs creaked noisily as he opened it and he jumped back. He steeled himself, remembering that Suga had given him full permission to go wherever he wanted, and tiptoed through the thin opening, trying not to move the door any more than he already had. Inside, the floor was arranged much like the one below, with four rooms all opening on to a corridor. This time though, the hall was dim, the window at the far end covered with a lace curtain. The air smelt musty and distinctly unlived in, as if it had been undisturbed for many years. The wallpaper was purple, although in the dim light it was a bit hard to tell exactly what shade, and it was spotted here and there with silhouette portraits. There were far fewer of these than there were still lifes in the entrance hall, and it made the corridor look wider, despite the fact that it was about the same size. Tadashi crept quietly along, noticing as he went that all the silhouettes had their likeness’s name written in the same curling script below them. The words were beautiful, but with all the extra swirls and curlicues, impossible to read in the low light.

Tadashi reached the end of the hall; on either side of him were two identical wooden doors, both unusually wide like the front door. Neither gave any clue as to what was inside. Tadashi chose the left hand one. Inside was a library. Bookshelves lined the walls, making the room seem smaller than it actually was and parting only for the windows, curtained by heavy lace and letting only dim grey light into the room. Below these were a couple of desks with long empty oil lamps for illumination. Even though the whole room was clean, the low light made it seem grimy and untouched. Tadashi checked behind him, almost expecting to see his own footsteps in a layer of imaginary dust. The library did feel somehow… forgotten, and Tadashi suddenly realized that it was missing all the normal accoutrements of a steam age library. No huffing page-turners, or clanking reshelving machines, there wasn’t even the quiet hiss of a gas light in the background. 

Even the sound of the rain had stopped. 

Tadashi was caught by a flashback to his probably-dream, the thick, deep silence, and the voices. He looked slowly around the room, steeling himself, for what he did not know.

A tall boy sat in an armchair in the corner of the room to Tadashi’s left. He definitely hadn’t been there when Tadashi had first entered the room. He was very pale, his complexion almost white, and he had creamy blond hair. He wore a red tailcoat with a high collar and white ribboning across the front of it. His whole form seemed over exposed, as if someone had taken a painting and then added a layer of translucent white. Tadashi realized with a chill that the boy did not have feet, instead his legs faded into transparency around his ankles. On closer investigation, Tadashi saw that the rest of him was slightly see-through as well, and he could just make out the back of the chair through the boy’s torso.

“Staring is rude,” the boy said, “didn’t you know?”

The sound of his voice, light and youthful, startled Tadashi, making him jump backwards, and when he tried to reply, he found his mouth dry and frozen.

The boy snickered at him, the sides of his mouth curling up into a tight smirk. “You’re afraid, aren’t you? So afraid you can’t even move.” He stood and approached Tadashi, and, although he was definitely taking separate steps, his movement was so smooth that Tadashi could have sworn he was gliding. “Well?” He demanded, standing over Tadashi. “Say something.”

Tadashi tried, his mouth working to create sound, but none came. He was paralyzed, and could only stare up at the washed out gold eyes of the ghost.

The ghost’s smirk widened. “ _ Pathetic _ ,” he said coldly, and then brushed past and through Tadashi. It felt like being dunked in a tub of ice-cold water.

Tadashi, suddenly unfrozen, whipped around, but the ghost was gone, and the rain pattered comfortingly on the windows once again.

He left the room at a run, barely remembering to close the door behind him, and clattered down the stairs and into the kitchen, breathing heavily. Suga, kneading bread dough at a bench, gave him a strange look, but Tadashi didn’t say anything, just made his way over to the table behind the window and slumped into a chair. 

“I’m afraid it’s not lunch yet,” Suga told him, “and I’m quite busy in here.” He took a closer look at Tadashi’s pasty complexion. “Are you alright?”

Tadashi took a deep, steadying breath, then asked, “Do people ever say this place is haunted?” It came out all in a rush.

Suga’s face closed up like a folding box. “That’s not really a good question to be asking,” he said, punching the dough with surprising vehemence. “Karasuno is a perfectly safe place to live. It’s a home, not some sort of supernatural tourist attraction.”

“So it  _ is _ haunted,” Tadashi guessed.  Suga gave him a very hard look, and he shrank back in the chair. “It’s just that… Well I saw–“

“Whatever you think you saw,” Suga said, cutting him off, “you didn’t. Ghosts aren’t real. They’re scientifically impossible.” He went back to pounding the dough and said nothing more.

Tadashi reluctantly left the kitchen. He didn’t want to go back past the second floor, and he didn’t want to annoy Suga either.

It was obvious that the cook was hiding something, something about the boy he had seen, Tadashi thought, but it was equally clear that Suga wouldn’t just tell him if he asked nicely. Yes, there was a secret to this house, and Tadashi was going to have to find it out for himself.

Determined, he took a full oil lamp from atop a dresser in the drawing room and lit it with a match. It took him several tries to get it right and close the glass shade over the flame without extinguishing it (seriously, what sort of house didn’t have a portable gas lamp), but eventually he managed it.

He mounted the stairs with the lamp held out in front of him like a beacon, like a shield, and again entered the second floor. This time he headed straight for the library, ignoring the silhouettes along the walls. The room was just as he had left it. Rows and rows of books, empty desks, empty armchair… Wait. The armchair the ghost had been sitting in was not empty after all. A book had been left there, casually leant against the arm, as if its owner had only just stepped away for a moment. It hadn’t been there the first time, had it? He couldn’t remember whether there had been anything on the chair other than the ghost. Tadashi approached it cautiously, scanning the room around him, hyper aware of the patter of rain against the windows and the smell of old books, half hoping the boy would show up again, half fearing the same thing.

He carefully tapped the book, pulling his hand away quickly. Nothing happened. He delicately picked the book up and turned it over in his hands. It was very old, the fabric of its cover thin and almost going to holes in places, spine weak and pages thick and yellowed. There was no title on the cover so Tadashi carefully set his oil lamp down on one of the desks and opened it. A small puff of dust billowed up, making him sneeze, and when it cleared he saw that the book had been ravaged by worms; their small holes bored through the pages. 

The first page was blank but for a dedication, written in smooth, cursive black ink. It read, ‘For Tsukishima Kei, may you bring honour to your family, glory to your country, and justice to your king.’ There was no signature, but instead only a date: 1744. 

The book was over a hundred and fifty years old, older even than the steam age. It must have come from a time before even the first railroads, before steam engines themselves. Tadashi put the book down reverently. 

But who was this Tsukishima Kei? And why had he been given such a book? And why had the book ended up here, in Karasuno manor? 

Tadashi opened the book again, even more carefully than before, cradling the spine with one hand. He flipped past the dedication to the inner title page. ‘A Collectione of Old World Faerie Storys, Selected for Amusement and Elucidation by the Honourable Mister Ennoshita Chikara,’ it read. The publication date was 1740, four years before it had been given away.

The edges of the pages were rounded and fuzzy with age, but as Tadashi flipped through it, he noticed that they were still almost all stuck together. This book had never once been read. Towards the end of the book, however, a page was dog-eared. When Tadashi got to it, he saw mucky fingerprints on the paper and the unmistakeable scuff of use.

The page that had been marked was the first page of a story, and it’s title read, in large blocky letters, ‘A Story Short, or The Plight of the Storyteller.’ Tadashi flipped through it without reading it, noticing that all the pages were unstuck. One even contained a trace of sticky red jam. Once it was finished, however, the use stopped, and the pages were once again clean and unread, save of course for the worm tunnels that twisted their way throughout the paper.

“Yamaguchi?” someone called distantly.

The sudden sound made Tadashi jump, almost ripping the cover right of the old volume. “H-here,” he replied tentatively.

“It’s lunch time.” The voice was Suga’s of course, nothing to worry about. “Come on down and clean up, we’ll be eating quite soon.”

Tadashi must have lost track of time studying the book. He gentle replaced it one the chair, exactly where he had found it, took his lamp, and trotted back down stairs.

“What have you got that lamp for?” Suga asked him as he entered the kitchen to wash his hands and face.

“It’s quite dark today,” Tadashi replied, trying not to sound suspicious. For some reason he really didn’t want to tell Suga what he had been up to.

“I hope you were alright by yourself all morning,” Suga continued, “I feel a bit bad for leaving you on your own.”

Tadashi bit down the remark that he wasn’t a child anymore and could take care of himself. Suga was just trying to be nice, saying that would be ungrateful. 

“You can probably tag along with Daichi this afternoon if you want,” the cook said.

“I-I think I’ll be alright,” Tadashi replied quickly. “I haven’t finished exploring the house yet,” he explained. “This place is very interesting.”

The edges of Suga’s mouth tightened minutely, but all he said was, “make sure you’re careful with the furniture, most of it is old and delicate.”

“I’ll be careful,” Tadashi assured him.

He rushed through lunch, which made Daichi and Suga look increasingly suspicious, but his aunt seemed very happy with the situation. “This is how all growing boys should be eating,” she remarked in her creaky voice. 

Afterwards, he relit the oil lamp and trekked back up to the second floor and into the library. When he got there, though, the book was gone. 

Tadashi scanned the shelves, peering at the faded titles and spines to find the one he’d seen earlier, but it was no use. He did notice, however, that none of the books in the library looked to be less than twenty years old, and most of them seemed much older than that. His search having proved fruitless, he moved to the room directly across the hall.

It was another sitting room, filled with comfortable looking chairs and small tables, although not so crowded as the downstairs rooms. The walls were painted in a tasteful pastel blue this time, faded with time and made orangish by the light of Tadashi’s lamp. On the wall opposite the door was a fireplace, its opening obscured by a small screen, and beside it was a writing desk with a tall chair.

_ Why would one put a writing desk in a sitting room if there’s a library just next door? _ Tadashi wondered, moving towards it.

The desk’s angled surface was bare but around it were many closed drawers. Tadashi began opening them, feeling vaguely guilty for poking around. Most of the drawers were either empty or filled with mundane writing paraphernalia: blotting paper, sheets of stationery paper, a few dip pens, and a dried out ink well. In one drawer, how ever, he found a strange box.

It was small, small enough to fit in the palm of his hand, and surprisingly heavy for its size. The outside was painted red with a pattern of flowers in blue and white overtop. It was closed by a latch on one side, and on the other, a small hole had been bored into the wood. Tadashi opened it, not quite sure what he was expecting. Nothing happened. Inside was a cylindrical drum with tiny irregular spikes along it, and a comb, its end diagonal and almost touching the drum, these were surrounded by many tiny gears and cogs. It was a music box.

_ Must be missing the key, _ Tadashi thought,  _ I wonder what tune it plays _ . He went back to rummaging through the desk, but was unable to find anything at all that looked like the missing piece. He did, however, find another drawer, one he had missed during his first search. It was locked, and no amount of tugging or nudging could budge it. 

He left the desk disappointed, and wandered around the room, gazing disinterestedly at the few paintings, all watercolour, that decorated the walls. None of them were particularly exceptional, or even different at all, and Tadashi decided that they must have been done by a former occupant of the house. One of them, near the door, caught his eye. It wasn’t as large as the others, but far more detailed. The same uncanny intricacy as the portrait of the young soldier in the entrance hall, Tadashi realized with a chill. It was of a house, this house, he realized, noting the tall thin shape of the building, almost like a tower. Except it was painted in summertime, half covered with ivy. The grounds around it were lush and green, speckled with colourful flowers, and what appeared to be a small dog gamboled along the lawn.

“You shouldn’t be here,” a voice said behind him. 

Tadashi whipped around, stumbling forwards into the same ice cold sensation as when the ghost had walked through him that morning. He picked himself back up and faced… a girl. 

She was much shorter than him, and had blonde hair and a very worried expression. She was wearing a white dress in a high waisted style he’d only seen before in history books. It faded out into nothingness around her feet. Although she seemed to be made out of the same stuff as the first ghost, her form was washed out and pale, edges fuzzy, and slightly translucent, she could not have looked more different. Instead of a disdainful smirk, she looked concerned and almost frightened. Remembering his previous encounter, Tadashi listened carefully for the sound of the rain outside, or indeed any sound at all, but heard nothing.

“Are you alright?” She asked, worriedly scanning Tadashi as if for injuries. “Falling like that…” She trailed off, wringing her hands nervously.

“Umm, errr, hello?” Tadashi said, cautiously.

The ghost squeaked and jumped back from him.

“I’m, er, Yamaguchi Tadashi,” he tried again, “I’m staying here for the next two weeks.”

“You shouldn’t be here,” she repeated, her voice sounding frightened but surprisingly strong, “This f-floor. It’s b-bad luck. You should go.” She reached out to push him away but her arms sunk through him, filling his chest with an icy blast. At this, she looked even more distressed than ever, her eyes wide and lips trembling.

“D-don’t cry,” Tadashi said, trying to be comforting. How was he supposed to comfort a ghost? “It’s alright. Ummm. Can you tell me your name?”

She scrubbed at her face with her hands and looked up at him, eyes bright with fear. “Go!” She shouted, almost a screech, “Go now before he gets you!”

Tadashi obeyed without really thinking about it, tripping over himself to get out of the room and down the stairs. The door to the second floor slammed shut behind him.  _ Did I close it? _ He wondered, panting on the landing. Perhaps he had nudged it on his way out. Gradually he became aware of the rain once again, and of the distant sound of Suga singing tunelessly from the kitchen, and of the creak of the old house. Looking down, he realized that he still held the music box clenched in one hand, and he’d left the oil lamp sitting on the desk.

_ That can’t be safe, _ he thought to himself,  _ what if it accidentally starts a fire? Surely if he just darted in quickly, the ghost girl wouldn’t be upset. _ He tried the door handle, but found it suddenly locked. He rattled it around, and jiggled it up and down, but to no avail.

Giving up, he knelt down and peered through the keyhole. A slice of hall was dimly visible. It was empty and shadowy and completely still. Tadashi shifted from side to side, trying to get a better view.

He shivered suddenly, and was not quite sure why, but his eye was drawn to the door of the sitting room. A faint glow emanated from inside the open doorway. Was it the oil lamp? Wouldn’t it be too faint to light up the whole room like that? The light brightened, and brightened. The oil lamp emerged from the doorway, floating, as if held by an invisible hand. Tadashi felt his muscles clench and his heart pound, but he did not move, and held himself utterly still. The oil lamp floated to the exact center of the hallway, and then a shadow began to form around it. At first Tadashi thought he was imagining things, but the shadow thickened and solidified into the vague shape of a man, tall and stick thin. Its outline indistinct and blurry, as though seen through a thick fog. It began to approach, ever so slowly. Tadashi couldn’t tell if it was walking or floating; its legs appeared to move as if it were taking steps, but its body glided so smoothly that he began to doubt his perception. The flame of the oil lamp flickered, getting smaller and smaller as the creature advanced. Was the oil running out? Tadashi had been certain it had been full.

Then three things happened at the exact same time.

The oil lamp crashed to the floor, going out as it dropped and spilling hot oil all over the carpet. Above it, two huge glowing eyes opened in the creature’s head, looking like the depths of a furnace in the background. It reached out a long spindly arm.

Tadashi jerked back from the keyhole so violently he thumped into the wall behind him, hitting his head on it. He gazed back at the closed door, frozen in terror, blood pounding in his ears. Nothing happened. The stairway was still.

Tadashi took a deep breath, let it out, and took in another. After a few minutes he mustered up the courage to crawl back to the door. When he touched it cautiously with the very tips of his fingers, the wood was warm. He put his eye to the keyhole, feeling the heat of the metal on his face. Through it the hallway looked still, peaceful. The broken oil lamp lay forlornly on the carpet, but there was no dark figure in sight.

Tadashi jiggled the door handle, and the lock clicked a bit, but didn’t open. 

He went back up to his room in the attic, and put the little music box on the dresser beside all the other little toys.

The two voices last night were the voices of the ghosts, he was certain of it. But who were they anyway? Just what was that black figure? And why did Suga so vehemently deny their existence?

He spent the rest of the afternoon, and most of the evening, pondering these questions. It was clear that Suga would be no help, which meant Daichi probably wouldn’t help him either. He had a feeling that Auntie would tell him everything she knew if he asked, but did she know about the ghosts at all? Wouldn’t she just dismiss him as a kid too caught up in the old house and his own imagination? He needed a concrete lead.

The revelation came to him that evening. Tsukishima Kei! The little novel had appeared only when the ghost had been there, and disappeared after he left. Could they be connected? Tadashi racked his memory of dull history lessons and years of dates.

After thinking carefully about it, he became certain of a few things. First, that the ghost he’d seen had been the boy in the weirdly detailed watercolour portrait in the hall. Second, the military uniform he’d been wearing was outdated, but would have been current over a century and a half ago, when the book had been gifted. Third, both the portrait and the book had disappeared mysteriously as soon as he tried to look for them. Painting, novel, and ghost were all connected.

He determined to ask his aunt at some point the next day. It couldn’t be too hard to get her alone, and she certainly seemed fond enough of him not to suspect anything

He awoke again in the middle of the night. This time is wasn’t hard to tell what had woken him. Behind him in the room was a rhythmic creaking. Creak… Croak… Creak… Croak… _It must be the rocking horse_ , he thought, _the sound of its rockers on the wooden floor._

He sat up in bed and turned to look, shivering in the cold air and wrapping his quilt tightly around his shoulders.

Sure enough, the ghost stood, or floated, by the toy, one hand placed on the top of its head, gently rocking it up and down. His form was pale and vaguely luminescent in the darkness, and most distinct than it had been earlier. His faded golden eyes were fixed on Tadashi, and a small smirk played on his lips. He didn’t speak, but held Tadashi’s gaze and continued to rock the horse.

“Are you Tsukishima Kei?” Tadashi blurted out.  

The ghost’s eyes widened in shock just for a moment and then went back to their usual expression of feigned disinterest. “So you can speak,” he said in a teasing tone, not answering the question.

Tadashi looked from the ghost to the horse, and back to the ghost. “How can you touch that if you couldn’t touch me?” He asked.

The ghost, Tsukishima, gave him a look that immediately made him feel embarrassed for saying anything.

“We can only touch things that belong to the house,” explained a girl’s voice from behind Tadashi. He turned to see that the other ghost had appeared by the end of the bed. “You see?” she asked, and gently passed her hand through his trunk, then tried to do the same to the bed, but this time her limb connected as if it were solid.

Tsukishima huffed and clicked him tongue, abandoning the rocking horse to glide towards them. “He would have figured it out on his own eventually.”

Tadashi felt his chest swelling with the praise. “Thanks Tsukki!” He said and then clapped both hands over his mouth, as if to keep the accidental nickname from leaving. It was too late for that though.

The girl broke down laughing, holding her stomach with one hand and propping herself up on the bed with the other.

Tsukishima looked equal parts embarrassed and annoyed. Tadashi wasn’t sure if ghosts could blush, but if they could, this one was.

The girl recovered slowly from her laughing fit. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Tsukishima is such a grouch. I’m glad there’s someone here who’s not intimidated by him.” With these words she smiled, and Tadashi had never seen such a bright grin. She sobered again almost instantly. “I’m sorry for how I acted earlier,” she told him earnestly. “I was very rude, and I didn’t even introduce myself. I’m Yachi Hitoka, at your service.” She did a little curtsy for him.

Tadashi struggled to think of something to say. “What are you doing here?” He asked, and then realized how dumb the question was even as he said it and as Tsukki wrinkled his ghostly eyebrows.

“We’ve been here longer than you,” he said, “so shouldn’t we be the ones asking you that question?”

“I-I thought…” Tadashi trailed off, trying to rephrase his thought. “But shouldn’t you be haunting me? Like knocking over tables and stuff?” 

“I can knock over tables if you want,” said Tsukki derisively, already heading towards the dresser. Yachi grabbed him by the long tails of his coat and hauled him back, seemingly with all her strength.

“Some ghosts are bad and some ghosts are, well, not bad,” she explained. “We’re just like living people except…” She looked away, clearly uncomfortable.

“Except we’re dead,” Tsukki said bitterly, his voice cold. 

“O-oh,” Tadashi replied, not really sure how he was expected to reply. It was obviously a touchy subject for the ghosts. “I’m sorry.”

Tsukki laughed, but there was no warmth or happiness to the sound.

Tadashi suddenly felt uneasy in a way he couldn’t explain.

“Kei don’t,” Yachi started to say, but the other ghost cut her off.

“Sorry,” he spat. “That’s easy for you to say. Easy for you to come here, poke around a bit, and then leave as soon as you choose.” As he said this, his appearance began to change, military uniform blackening as if scorched by invisible flames. The snapping and popping, and the scent of burning wood filled the room, although the temperature remained the same. Tsukki stalked towards him, leaning his long skinny form over Tadashi, dripping phantom flames. Tadashi cowered behind his blanket. “You look just like him you know,” Tsukki said, and if Tadashi hadn’t been so frightened he might have noticed the tiny break in the ghost’s voice.

“L-like w-who?” he stammered out, heart racing.

Tsukki smiled an enormous cruel grin, his form now almost engulfed in flames. “Like the man who got me killed,” He snapped the words into Tadashi’s white face, his own twisted with rage, and then twirling around, almost unsteady on the feet he didn’t have, and fell backwards, through the closed trapdoor, and vanished.

Throughout this speech Yachi had been alternately chewing on her nails, and waving her arms in panicked attempts to placate the taller ghost. Now her eyes whipped back and forth from Tadashi to the trapdoor, looking just as terrified as Tadashi felt.

“I-it’s okay,” he told her, voice trembling. He felt the bizarre need to comfort her, even if he was really the one who should be more afraid. “I-I’m alright, and I’m not scared.” That was a blatant lie and both of them knew it, but Yachi seemed a bit calmer and less terrified after hearing it.

She sat carefully on the bed beside him, her shoulder length hair obscuring her face, and her hands clenched in her lap. “I really am sorry about him,” she said in a small voice after about a minute of thick silence. “He’s just, well, I don’t know. He’s so hard to read, even back when we were alive…” She fiddled with a ribbon on her dress, it was black and orange, but both colours had been washed into pastel and grey by her ghostly pallor. “He’s still angry about dying, I think,” she said sadly, not looking at Tadashi.

“Aren’t you?” he asked without thinking.

Her head jerked up in surprise and she looked at him with wide eyes. “I-I don’t know,” she said, looking down again. “It’s been such a long time. And, and there’s nothing I can do to change it.” The words had a falsely positive ring to them.

Tadashi thought for a minute and then asked, “Why are you telling me this?”

“I don’t really know,” she murmured, “but it’s been such a long time since anyone came, and,” she paused, and Tadashi could see she was smiling softly, “and Tsukki was right, you do look like him.”

Before Tadashi could ask who ‘he’ was, she hopped off the bed and quickly brushed down the front of her skirt. “I’m going to find Tsukki. You should get back to sleep,” she said, “we’ve kept you up for far too long. And don’t worry, Tsukki may be dramatic, but neither of us are going to harm you.

Tadashi nodded mutely, and, not really knowing what else to do, lay back down and pulled the quilt up to his chin, a moment later, the miniscule creaking of the house resumed, so he knew the ghost had left.

This time though, he couldn’t sleep. His head was swirling with facts and questions and details. Who were these kids? He knew their names sure, but what were their lives like? And how did they die? He thought, but pushed the question down immediately. For some reason the image of Tsukki’s ghost, standing in the middle of a pool of phantom flames, both terrified him, and struck him as hauntingly familiar.

**Author's Note:**

> The plot thickens...  
> I will post the second part probably around this time next week, and will update the tags when I do (some characters have been left out for the sake of mystery). See you then!
> 
> Contact me at [my blog](http://h0pe-y.tumblr.com) to talk Haikyuu!!, Greene Knowe, and the virtues of airships.


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